The only thrill worthwhile is the one that comes from making something out of yourself. ~ William Feather
Hello. My name is Carolyn and I am a recovering political arguer. To qualify as recovering, I had to prepare a searching and fearless inventory of my p.a. past. Let me share the highlights:
At age 8, I canvassed the neighborhood with my mother for the Republican candidate for mayor of Chicago. His name was Bob Merriam. He was an author and reformer, a war veteran with a Bronze Star. The Democratic candidate, slated for the first time, was Richard J. Daley the Original. It is said that Merriam actually had a chance. Imagine what Chicago might be like by now if he had won. That day, people were either polite or not at home, and I got ice cream on the way back. I rather enjoyed it.
In college, I would entertain myself at parties poking at the politics of certain boyfriends of certain friends. But only if they started it. It was funny, mostly, a parlor game. It was a cheap thrill to have the power to get someone else so worked up. I was, of course, right.
Also in college, early in my budding relationship with my eventual husband, I was invited to dinner at the home of his aunt and his uncle, a WW II Marine. I’m not sure who started it, but by the time he had set me straight, I was in tears over the stroganoff. Lesson learned: politics can hurt.
In early adulthood, I was busy. We were no longer at war, nobody was getting drafted. Who had time to dither over politics?
Then came the Clinton administration, which put me through a lot. By the end of it I was of several minds. I was indignant that Hillary had been so pilloried. And disgusted with the weasely baseness of Bill’s sexual conduct with a girl close to the age of his own daughter for pity’s sake, and with his refusal to own up. At the same time I was impressed that he managed to dismantle some of the dependence-inducing welfare system without stripping the entire safety net, and that he pulled off a balanced budget on his way out.
To some people he was a disappointment. To others, he was the worst creature to ever walk the earth. It was then I noticed that people were suddenly delivering their opinions at the top of their lungs.
The Bush years only magnified the tension, and that polarizing trend really took off. There were only good guys and bad guys, and you were one or the other. I noticed that I didn’t like the attitude of the people I mainly agreed with any better than the ones I didn’t. Everybody was nasty.
Then the TV pundits came into their own, and built their little kingdoms of the air by attacking anyone who they could catch on tape, whether office-holder, candidate, spouse, minister, hanger-on, whoever. Then the pundits started in on each other, convincing journalists that what they said was news.
By the way, do you know what those pundits make per year from their fear-mongering and hate speech? Why, it’s an…..
No wait. I’m in recovery. I really am. Hold on. Deep breath….Another…Okay, I’m better now.
As I was saying, the byproduct of the ascendance of the pundits was that once we had watched them go at it for a time, we started in on each other. But this was no parlor game. This was for blood.
That’s when I began to retreat in earnest. I was sick to death of having to defend my beliefs, as if I’d somehow volunteered for the debate team and every day was a meet.
And now, I have retreated entirely. Because now I see clearly that in this climate, once anybody gets started, they can’t stop. Their positions migrate to the far ends of the spectrum, and the gulf opens even wider. Once the name-calling starts, I want to be in the car, speeding off.
When the political phone calls started up again this week – I got three in one day – to herald the opening of our upcoming 18-month descent into another presidential campaign, I decided to opt out from each one.
“Please take me off your calling list,” I say.
“But why?” they sputter, as if it’s a surprise that one of their targets has had enough. “I’m not going to change my mind,” I answer.
They hesitate, deciding whether to try to lure me back or move on. Before they can, I wish them well and hang up. It’s very liberating.
But I must be rigorously honest in my recovery, and must admit there is more to it than that. I also don’t want to participate in these exchanges because I don’t have to. We’re supposed to be free to disagree.
Don’t misunderstand. I vote. I care. I’m not shirking my civic responsibilities. I’m just abstaining from the conversation. I have never seen a political argument result in new learning or a changed position anyway. Ever.
I voted this week in a minor local election. Afterwards, I was chased to the parking lot by a middle-aged woman whose accent told me that she’d come here from halfway around the world.
“Can you help me?” she said. “I can’t tell which of the candidates are from which party.”
I told her it was a local school board election, and candidates didn’t run on a party ticket.
By that time, her husband joined us. He declared their party affiliation, and said, “So you see, we don’t want to vote for the enemy.”
Here they’d gone to all the trouble of finding a new country and becoming citizens of it, and they couldn’t vote without suspecting that their enemy was lurking. Did we instill that in them, or was that a vestige of what they’d left behind in their old country?
I kept to my pledge. “There are no parties for this,” I repeated.
“Who did you vote for?” she demanded.
“That’s private,” I said. “Besides, no one is supposed to try to influence someone else’s vote this close to the polling place. It’s a law.”
They backed away, exasperated, looking for someone else to ask. They were disappointed in me. But I wasn’t. I did have a preference in that election, but there’s a reason why voting booths have curtains.
I’m sure I’ll encounter temptation in the next 18 months, but I plan to maintain my silence. One day at a time.
